It's All About Her Blood
by sxxjvng
Summary: He thinks it's a curse when they thought it's an honor; he guesses having his life slip off of him every ten minutes sounds alright, then? Dark-ish!SasuSaku. Modern!AU


**TITLE:** It's All About Her Blood

**RATING: **T

**PAIRING/S: **US/HS; UN/HH; S/YI

**NOTE: **This story was inspired from a species on the Harry Potter Book Series— one that is very interesting to reckon with. However, this will be a Modern!AU fiction so it's not all "magical with wands and a school full of wizards", nope. I am going to borrow the word and it's origin and anything that I may connect it with, so I'll let you all look into the story to discover what I'm talking about. (I also don't think that this will be a crossover because I won't insert any HP characters in the story.) In addition, I am not good with explicit scenes so I think that my rating would suffice.

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Naruto because it's Masashi Kishimoto's nor is Harry Potter because J. owns it.

**SUMMARY: ** He thinks it's a curse when they thought it's an honor; he guesses having his life slip off of him every ten minutes sounds alright, then? Dark-ish!SasuSaku. Modern!AU

* * *

**PROLOGUE.**

Most people thought that they do not exist anymore; but, they were proved wrong. They did not successfully shown any evidence that the race— one that was vastly known for their special characteristics—_ so enchanting, so beautiful, so ethereal_— had been wiped out long ago; few of the countrymen believed it as a myth now—_ a fraud, an imagination_— but no, it's not.

They're _not_.

"You're not supposed to read that, Young Miss," a silver-haired man suggests whilst snatching the book that the young girl has on her hands, tucking the hardbound under his arm. "Not until you've come of age, that is."

Twisting on her seat, she looks up at her servant with her lips set into a pout, her green irises— _bright, so bright_— glowing from the rays of sunlight as it stubbornly tries to peek from the shade of tree under their heads. "But it's _unfair_!," she whines. "I— _why _is Mother allowed to but I'm not? I'm thirteen already."

Hatake Kakashi laughes at that, giving a curt bow to the young lady of the Haruno family before placing a hand on her shoulder after watching her skip off the bench; he drags her towards the ginormous Manor that the family owns.

"You've become quite such a lovely lady, Young Miss," Kakashi comments offhandedly as they walk down the pathway, his fingers gliding over the yellow daffodils— one of those that decorates the lovely garden that Haruno Mebuki owns— they pass through, "but once you've grown up and turn sixteen, then, you're allowed to come to the library anytime you want."

Sakura—_ oh, lovely Sakura; so naïve, so precious, so delicate, so vulnerable, such a prized possession_— perks up, then, looking up at the man with those big, innocent seafoam orbs of hers and that smile that makes any person's knees go weak and says: "Really, Kakashi? I can? Anytime I want?"

He smiles back. "Of course, you can."

* * *

He dreams of cherry blossoms and green fields for a few nights now; it is absurd, he muses, but lets it take over him, pretends that is nothing—_ it's nothing, Mother; it's just a dream_— and goes on with his life. He finds himself staring off to the distant sometimes, hears his friends laugh at him at the background— _look, he's gone dreamy again; he's not using drugs, right?_— and imagines of those pink petals falling over his head whilst gazing down the mass of green leaves under his barefeet— it doesn't smell anything, he notices; it doesn't.

It is crazy, but he pretends that it is nothing.

Up until he dreams of a girl with pink tresses— _luscious, soft, smooth, like fine threads woven by the goddesses above_— and green eyes— _expressive, swirling in colors under the moonlight, one that is meant for him to not look away_— beneath him: gasping, breatheless, glowing, thrashing, _naked_.

He wakes up with a start but continues dreaming of _her _for a week.

* * *

His nose bleeds for that time in the morning again— right in front of his family in breakfast; he cusses audibly and grabs the table napkin to dab it under his nose.

"Sasuke, dear, are you alright?" Uchiha Mikoto asks, concern present on her face as she watches her son's blood trickle down his uniform, staining it with red.

"I-I'm fine," he replies hastily and goes to stand up, "I'm going to my room." He tries makes a run for it, however, when he hears his older brother talk, he throws him an odd, confused look, blood— _dried blood_— crusting under his nose and his stomach clenching painfully yet again; he really needs to leave for he declines showing how weak he is.

"I think we need to make a visit to the Harunos," his brother says— not to him but to their parents— with that firm voice of his, not looking at anyone but the blood that pooled on Sasuke's plate.

The latter watches his mother flinch and his father nod; he keeps quiet, eyes—_ tired, very tired, from lack of sleep, lack of appetite and need for something, no, someone to be inside of_— watching the elders as they stood up and feels his head wanting to scream and ask them about what the _fuck _is going on.

His mother, then, speaks:

"Tell Mebuki-san that we're going for a visit; it's time."

* * *

Soon, he learns what he is— _you are hers_— and what he is for— _you are chosen for the Lady of the House_— and why he's feeling what he is feeling— _these signs shows that it is time; everytime both of you are apart, each of you will suffer crucial pain: headaches, abdominal pains, nosebleed and the excessive need for mating_— and it is absurd, maddening, full of _bullshite_.

He doesn't speak because he doesn't run— _only a coward runs, Sasuke; you are not a coward— _but he _fumes_, he _loathes_, he _despises_, he _itches_, he _wants_— he is _thirsty_— and he is confused because she is there, looking right at him and it— _she_— reminds him of his dreams, of the pain and those lingering touch and need—_ so much need and so much longing_— to drag her beneath him to hear her— s_quirm, gasp, breathe, come— _call his name, to hear his name ghost over her lips—_ so plump, so inviting, his._

But he doesn't do anything so sits and stares across her, reminding himself that he should hate her because of this—_ this is your destiny, Sasuke, you must understand_— so he did; he will.

This is _her _fault.

He made her this— it's all about_ her fucking blood._

_She is his Veela and he is her mate._


End file.
